Dreaming While Awake...
Dreaming while awake...
I've heard of people doing that sort of thing. They could be sitting at a cafe somewhere, not doing a thing, just enjoying a rather fine cup of coffee or a delicious sandwich, when all of a sudden--BAM! A vivid dream strikes out of nowhere. It's not a daydream; daydreams tend to have this distinct look to them. Like...like everything's just slightly out of focus.
As I change the song on Windows Media Player, I know very well that this is no daydream. Firstly, it's almost one in the morning and night still has its hold on this part of the world. Second, everything is perfectly and clearly defined. It's almost like it's real, except...except for the handsome man sitting on my bed. The beautiful one who visits when I'm pushed to the border dividing my waking mind from slumber's fantasies. He's a representation of an ideal--no more, no less--but that doesn't mean I control him or what he does. Or even what he looks like, in case you're wondering.
Maybe that's why...he always chooses to look like...him. To tease me, I bet. To remind me that I'm easily distracted from my work and to remind me that the only way I'll ever have him is in my dreams...in my writings...
If Freud were living, he'd probably have a field day with me.
"You should come to bed," my visitor says softly. "I mean...it's almost one. You have an exam in the morning, Cris. You should get some sleep."
Ignoring the fact that his voice is the one I hear, I focus on the screen, forcing my fingers to hammer out words the mind is currently too tired to really understand. I'm pretty sure it's English; I'm pretty sure what's showing up on the screen is relevant to my history paper, but at the moment I don't really care. I should grab another bottle of Bawls to keep me awake, but I really do want to get some sleep tonight...
He's aware I've ignored him. "Cris?"
"I'll sleep when I finish this," I mutter.
Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat... The sound of fingers dancing fast on computer keys, more or less... Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat...
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him frown. He shakes the hair from his eyes. "And how long will that take you?"
"As long as it needs to." The answer is automatic, sounding strange--metallic--to my own ears. There's no inflection behind it to make it sound insistent or human. "I've got to finish it."
I hear him rise from the bed, and I wish he would just stay sitting down. "You have until noon."
"Sure. But you said so yourself; I have an exam in the morning, and I--"
I throw a quick glance in his direction, and the glance turns into too long of a stare. He's removed his shirt, and while I have no idea what...what he would look like without his shirt--or any other article of clothing, for that matter--I've spent a great deal of time imagining it. Toned, at the most; a little bit of softness in the area of his belly, pehaps, but in an adorable way. A healthy way. He's tall enough for weight to distrubute properly enough that shirtless he must look...
Well. Not that I'll ever know for sure. It's all dreaming and speculation for me.
(She draws in a breath as he stands there, a small smile on his lips. He feels her eyes scan him from top...to almost halfway down his borrowed body. Normally, her sight would hit the floor, but tonight it stops at the waistband of his jeans, where the exposed flesh abruptly comes to a halt and disappears beneath layers of denim and cotton. He knows what she's thinking; he can see the mildly lustful appreciation in her eyes. When he fully meets her gaze with his, however, she darts them away, looking back at the screen.
And again goes the tapping of the keys...)
"I won't have time," I finish softly. "I have to try finishing it tonight, even if it means BSing my way through it."
He scoffs. "Right. Because that's so much better. Do you have any idea what you're really typing out now? Or are you running on auto-pilot still?"
I look over at him again, fully intent on glaring at him, except...
(Except she doesn't quite glare at him. Once again, she falls into another trance of staring--although, this time, it's largely intentional. Fully deciding to take advantage of the moment, he leans forward slowly, a hand resting on the desk to keep from falling completely into her. He leans in until their noses are close to touching, and he lowers his eyelids and voice enough to be seductive.
Just like she quietly wants.)
"Have you ever thought that...maybe...talking to yourself...isn't healthy?"
He smells...like...crushed flower petals filling the bottom of an old coffee can. White roses and Cafe Bustelo. It's barely noticeable, even this close. But somehow...I think...
(She wants badly to believe that this is real. Her mind acknowledges the truth, but at an hour when others are sleeping and the rules of the waking world don't readly apply, she wishes more than anything that this waking dream is the true state of things. But no more than she considers the thought that he chuchkles sofly against her lips.)
"Wake up," he murmurs. "Finish your paper. I'm patient enough to wait."
And just like that, he's gone. He's gone, and I'm alone in my room--half asleep, with only half a paper finished and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed now and dream for real. "Dream for real..." There's a bit of an oxymoron if I ever saw one...perhaps.
Sighing, I hit the submit button and return to hammering out the rest of this paper. On the media player, MCR finishes a cover impressive enough to make Morrissey proud.
"You might be patient," I mutter. "But thanks to you, I'm not."
I've heard of people doing that sort of thing. They could be sitting at a cafe somewhere, not doing a thing, just enjoying a rather fine cup of coffee or a delicious sandwich, when all of a sudden--BAM! A vivid dream strikes out of nowhere. It's not a daydream; daydreams tend to have this distinct look to them. Like...like everything's just slightly out of focus.
As I change the song on Windows Media Player, I know very well that this is no daydream. Firstly, it's almost one in the morning and night still has its hold on this part of the world. Second, everything is perfectly and clearly defined. It's almost like it's real, except...except for the handsome man sitting on my bed. The beautiful one who visits when I'm pushed to the border dividing my waking mind from slumber's fantasies. He's a representation of an ideal--no more, no less--but that doesn't mean I control him or what he does. Or even what he looks like, in case you're wondering.
Maybe that's why...he always chooses to look like...him. To tease me, I bet. To remind me that I'm easily distracted from my work and to remind me that the only way I'll ever have him is in my dreams...in my writings...
If Freud were living, he'd probably have a field day with me.
"You should come to bed," my visitor says softly. "I mean...it's almost one. You have an exam in the morning, Cris. You should get some sleep."
Ignoring the fact that his voice is the one I hear, I focus on the screen, forcing my fingers to hammer out words the mind is currently too tired to really understand. I'm pretty sure it's English; I'm pretty sure what's showing up on the screen is relevant to my history paper, but at the moment I don't really care. I should grab another bottle of Bawls to keep me awake, but I really do want to get some sleep tonight...
He's aware I've ignored him. "Cris?"
"I'll sleep when I finish this," I mutter.
Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat... The sound of fingers dancing fast on computer keys, more or less... Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat...
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him frown. He shakes the hair from his eyes. "And how long will that take you?"
"As long as it needs to." The answer is automatic, sounding strange--metallic--to my own ears. There's no inflection behind it to make it sound insistent or human. "I've got to finish it."
I hear him rise from the bed, and I wish he would just stay sitting down. "You have until noon."
"Sure. But you said so yourself; I have an exam in the morning, and I--"
I throw a quick glance in his direction, and the glance turns into too long of a stare. He's removed his shirt, and while I have no idea what...what he would look like without his shirt--or any other article of clothing, for that matter--I've spent a great deal of time imagining it. Toned, at the most; a little bit of softness in the area of his belly, pehaps, but in an adorable way. A healthy way. He's tall enough for weight to distrubute properly enough that shirtless he must look...
Well. Not that I'll ever know for sure. It's all dreaming and speculation for me.
(She draws in a breath as he stands there, a small smile on his lips. He feels her eyes scan him from top...to almost halfway down his borrowed body. Normally, her sight would hit the floor, but tonight it stops at the waistband of his jeans, where the exposed flesh abruptly comes to a halt and disappears beneath layers of denim and cotton. He knows what she's thinking; he can see the mildly lustful appreciation in her eyes. When he fully meets her gaze with his, however, she darts them away, looking back at the screen.
And again goes the tapping of the keys...)
"I won't have time," I finish softly. "I have to try finishing it tonight, even if it means BSing my way through it."
He scoffs. "Right. Because that's so much better. Do you have any idea what you're really typing out now? Or are you running on auto-pilot still?"
I look over at him again, fully intent on glaring at him, except...
(Except she doesn't quite glare at him. Once again, she falls into another trance of staring--although, this time, it's largely intentional. Fully deciding to take advantage of the moment, he leans forward slowly, a hand resting on the desk to keep from falling completely into her. He leans in until their noses are close to touching, and he lowers his eyelids and voice enough to be seductive.
Just like she quietly wants.)
"Have you ever thought that...maybe...talking to yourself...isn't healthy?"
He smells...like...crushed flower petals filling the bottom of an old coffee can. White roses and Cafe Bustelo. It's barely noticeable, even this close. But somehow...I think...
(She wants badly to believe that this is real. Her mind acknowledges the truth, but at an hour when others are sleeping and the rules of the waking world don't readly apply, she wishes more than anything that this waking dream is the true state of things. But no more than she considers the thought that he chuchkles sofly against her lips.)
"Wake up," he murmurs. "Finish your paper. I'm patient enough to wait."
And just like that, he's gone. He's gone, and I'm alone in my room--half asleep, with only half a paper finished and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed now and dream for real. "Dream for real..." There's a bit of an oxymoron if I ever saw one...perhaps.
Sighing, I hit the submit button and return to hammering out the rest of this paper. On the media player, MCR finishes a cover impressive enough to make Morrissey proud.
"You might be patient," I mutter. "But thanks to you, I'm not."